“Follow me,” he said, leading Haern to a closet built into a space underneath the stairs. He pulled out a wooden crate, wincing at the effort. Feeling guilty, Haern ordered him aside and pried open the crate himself. Inside were an assortment of weapons, from knives to two-handed swords.
“I saw your fight with that mercenary,” Senke explained. “That cloakdance thing you did was something special, puts Norris Vel to shame, I’ll tell you that. But your swords weren’t right for it at all. Here, take these.”
He lifted a pair of weapons out and handed them over. They were long and slender, with the ends gently curved.
“These sabers are designed for slashing, and should do well with how you’re always moving. The points are sharp, but you’ll still have a hard time thrusting through heavier armor. Same with heavy chops, but I have a feeling brute force isn’t your usual method, given your speed.”
Haern swung the swords about, getting a feel for their weight. They were lighter than his previous swords, with a slightly longer reach. Their grips were comfortable, making them feel natural, like an extension of his body when he wielded them. He could tell they were expertly made.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Brug over there. He made them.”
“Just don’t break ’em,” Brug muttered from the table.
“Both sides will be out for blood tonight,” Senke said, leaning against a wall and holding a hand against his stomach. “You sure you have to go out? People will kill each other just fine without your help.”
He realized they were all looking at him, either blatantly or from the corners of their eyes. In his heart he felt something harden, as if he wanted to prove them wrong, to show he didn’t care what they thought. But what did it matter? Why did he go out? What might he accomplish? Deathmask’s biting words returned to him, mocking him in his mind.
You spent five years trying to single-handedly conquer the thief guilds. Yet you want to mock my imagination?
Something clicked in his head, several pieces tumbling together as the idea took form. He looked to them, then out the window. No, there was nothing out there for him, not this night. Come the day, he’d find Deathmask, assuming he still lived. Perhaps there was a chance to have a legacy that was the opposite of his father’s.
“You know,” he said, feeling a great weight lift off his shoulders. “I think I will stay here tonight, if you’ll have me.”
“Pull a seat up at the table,” Senke said with a smile. “You bet your ass we will.”
“Are you prepared to do what must be done?” Deathmask asked her.
“I am,” said Veliana.
“You’ll have to kill many of them. They were once your friends, your guildmates. Maybe you even considered them family. They won’t understand, and their loyalties are anyone’s guess. This is Garrick’s guild, and you’re nothing but a feeble woman who got in his way. Last time I ask. Can you stick a knife in them, every one of those familiar faces?”
“Not so familiar anymore,” she said. She tapped her sickly, bloodied eye. “Too many hate me for this. I’ve heard their whispers, their insults of my ugly mark. They never loved me, not like they loved James Beren. This guild may or may not be mine, but more than ever I know it should not be Garrick’s. If he sold his soul to Thren, then he betrayed every shred of James’s memory. Anyone who stays at his side is no friend of mine.”
Deathmask smiled at her.
“I want to do something for you,” he said. “This will take just a moment, but I hope you’ll appreciate it.”
He put a finger to his eye, the same as Veliana’s injured one, and then whispered the words of a spell. They seemed simple enough, and then came the change. His iris bloomed from a dark brown to a bloody red.
“This is what I think of your ugly mark,” he said. “I’ll proudly bear it so long as you stay with me. I will never cast aside your loyalty, for I’ve been cast aside enough in my own life.”
Veliana felt strangely touched by the gesture.
“One day,” she said, “I hope to believe you.”
They turned their attention to the unassuming building before them. The rooms appeared dark, but both knew of the expansion belowground, no doubt housing the last remnants of the Ash Guild. A few men and women wandered past them on the streets, several with dead eyes and drunken gaits. To Veliana it seemed the entire city was suffering a massive hangover, a crude comparison given how many of her kind had been mercilessly butchered. So far Deathmask hadn’t explained how he planned on dealing with all the mercenaries, but she had no choice but to trust him. Patting her daggers, she told him to lead the way.
“Keep your hood low,” he told her as they approached the door. “Surprise is everything. Theatrics can turn even the most ordinary of foes into something fearsome, and you are no ordinary foe.”
A single thief leaned against the door, looking like he’d been up for two days straight. Through bleary eyes he watched their arrival, recognizing Deathmask when they were almost within striking distance.
“Hey, we thought Thren—”
Veliana cut his throat before he finished the sentence. As his body fell, she glanced to Deathmask, and her meaning was clear. Look what I can do. Do not fear my loyalty. They are no longer friends of mine.
“Atta girl,” he said, his mismatched eyes sparkling behind his mask.
When she tried the door, it was both locked and barred. Deathmask gently moved her aside, put his hands upon the wood, and closed his eyes.
“Theatrics,” he whispered.
His hands shimmered between red and black, and then the door exploded inward in a great shower of splinters, accompanied by a shock wave that thumped against Veliana’s chest with enough force to make her catch her breath. Deathmask stepped through the dust and debris into a small entry room. Two men sat in chairs on either side of the doorway, their hands over their faces. Specks of blood dotted their clothes: damage from the shrapnel. Veliana rushed the one on the right, thrusting a dagger into his chest before he could react. Deathmask waved a hand at the other, who suddenly dropped to his knees, gagging. Before she could see the total effects of the spell, Veliana stabbed his heart.
“Sometimes quick is better,” she said.
So far it seemed their arrival had gone unnoticed by those farther in, hidden behind a second door. Deathmask pushed it open, and they stepped into the last remnants of the Ash Guild, all gathered from the various corners of Veldaren. There were twenty of them, sitting on chairs and pillows and looking miserable. Veliana felt both anguish and elation at seeing Garrick among them. Part of her had hoped he’d died in the fire, for he deserved nothing better, but at least his survival meant that he would be hers, all hers.
“Members of the Ash,” Deathmask said, screening Veliana with his body. He wanted to maximize the impact of revealing her, she knew. A smirk crossed her lips. They all thought her dead, Garrick included. How his mouth would drop, how his eyes would go wide … All around, the thieves stood and drew their weapons, for though Deathmask was one of them, there was something dangerous about his arrival, in the way he walked, the way he addressed them.
“You,” Garrick said, pointing a shaking finger. “You turned the Spiders against us, didn’t you? Why else would they let you live?”
“I am not the one who went into bed with the spider thinking I might not get bitten,” Deathmask said. “This destruction is your doing, all your doing. Listen to me, guildmembers! He sold your souls to Thren Felhorn, all so he might sleep well at night.”
“You lie!”
About a third of the men around them were exchanging glances, and their daggers and clubs lowered. Veliana watched and waited. She had to be fast. The first attacker needed to die immediately if she was to discourage the rest. When it came to a battle of personalities between Deathmask and Garrick, there would be no contest. At some point Garrick would call an end to it before he lost completely.
“How else would you
have maintained leadership?” Deathmask asked. “Why else would the guilds have made peace with you, even though your position was weak? Weeks ago you made your pact, and one by one the other guilds realized and left you alone. Only the Hawks attacked, and only once. Thren punished them severely for that, didn’t he?”
More mumblings about them. A couple glared at Garrick. These were the rumblings of treason, Veliana knew. Normally such accusations would be whispered from ear to ear, allowed to fester and grow. But the Trifect had pressed too hard. If they were to survive, they needed new leadership, and now.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrick said. He had drawn his dagger, but it remained at his side, as if he was afraid to even point it at Deathmask.
“Come now. We all know whose guild this truly was, before it was Thren’s. It was Veliana’s, not yours, never yours. That is why you wanted her dead.”
Louder grumblings, though many were disparaging her. She felt anger simmer in her heart. Even now they would deny her work, her sweat, her toil. The gods damn them all.
“She died because she tried to kill you, that’s all,” Garrick said.
Veliana stepped to Deathmask’s side and pulled her hood back. She smiled, and the look on Garrick’s face was everything she’d hoped it’d be.
“I never died,” she said. Her voice was soft, but even a whisper could have been heard in that suddenly quiet room. “But you will, you traitor. You sold your soul to Thren. I can never forgive you.”
She flung herself at him, not caring for her safety, nor the guild’s greater numbers. She would have his head, and this time no one would stop her. Garrick cried out for aid, and several thieves jumped in her way. Spinning away from a club, she gutted one on her left, rolled along the ground, and hamstrung another as she stood. The one with the club tried to smash her back, but she twirled again, her spine bending at an unnatural angle so the swing passed above her breasts. And then she was up again, stabbing him repeatedly, kicking away his corpse with seven bleeding holes in his chest.
“Make your choice!” Deathmask cried out. It seemed many had. They turned on the others, striking at those who moved toward him. The room was now in chaos, and within it Veliana thrived. She kicked out the legs of one rushing for Deathmask, burying a dagger in his ribs as his body hit the ground. Pulling it free, she flicked blood off it toward Garrick, who stood with his back to the wall, his dagger held before him.
“Where’s Thren to protect you now?” she asked as she stalked him, her daggers hungry in her hands. “Where’s the men who would rather rape me than serve under my leadership? Where’s your guild, Garrick?”
A blinding flash burst from behind her, a spell of some sort from Deathmask. In its light she rushed Garrick, her knee leading. It slammed into his crotch while she swatted away his dagger. Her other dagger’s hilt struck his forehead. She rammed an elbow into his mouth, then slashed across his face when she pulled back. Blood spurted from a gash across the bridge of his nose. His cry of pain was a garbled, weak thing.
“Now you’re the example,” she whispered to him. She stabbed her dagger into his throat, twisted it left, then right, and finally yanked it free. Blood splashed across her chest, but she didn’t mind. At his death much of the chaos slowed, for it seemed there was little point left in fighting. She glanced around and saw all eyes upon either her or Deathmask. Only ten remained of the initial twenty.
“Those who would betray their loyalties deserve nothing less,” Deathmask said, kneeling beside Garrick’s body. He put a hand on the head, which burst into flame. The body blackened and smoked, and in seconds it was nothing but a pile of ash. Taking a handful, Deathmask stood and flung it into the air. It revolved around his head, hiding his visage, making him look like some strange monster instead of a man.
“I am the Ash now. None of you are worthy of my leadership. You killed for me, and for that I spare your lives. Begone. Throw down your colors, or prepare to have them stained with your own blood.”
It seemed none there had the will to challenge the blood-soaked Veliana and her master. Her heart felt a pang at their exit, feeling like the last remnants of the guild she and James had built were gone, but Deathmask had promised her something greater, and she had to trust him. She scanned those exiting, looking for a set of faces, men who had remained out of the fight like the sensible opportunists they were.
“Nien, Mier,” she said as they left. “You two, stay.”
The twins looked back. They had pale skin, dark hair, and brown eyes that seemed to twinkle with subdued amusement.
“Yes?” they said.
Deathmask approached them, and he offered his hand.
“Veliana has vouched for your skills. Would you remain with me, and fight not for the Ash Guild that was, but for what it might yet be?”
The two glanced about the room, as if to point out the obvious to them.
“What guild?” Mier asked.
“There are only us four,” said Nien.
“And as long as the four of us live, there will always be an Ash Guild,” Deathmask said. “You have seen what we can do. Join us. We need your strength tonight. The mercenaries must be shown that we will not roll over and die for them.”
The twins shared a look, and Veliana swore some sort of mental conversation was going on between them that she was not privy to. Then they accepted Deathmask’s offered hand and shook it.
“Why not?”
“Could be fun.”
“Indeed,” Deathmask said, grinning behind his mask of cloth and ash. Veliana shook her head, wiped the blood clean from her daggers. She spit on what little was left of Garrick’s remains.
CHAPTER 24
In the dark of Felwood’s dungeon Oric shivered. He sat on a wood cot and listened to the water drip. Where it dripped he didn’t know. To pass the time he’d tried to guess, but the echo always seemed to change on him. His cell was completely dark, without a single shred of light. He’d scoured the floor with his palms, but everywhere he touched was wet, and a drop never landed upon him. Still, the search did better to pass the time than thinking about his fate. Anytime he thought of that, or of how long he might be in total darkness, his head swam and his heart lurched into his throat.
He’d tried talking to anyone else, a guard or fellow prisoner, but his voice only echoed through the emptiness, never answered. For some reason that always made it worse. Without light, company, or a single meal, time was meaningless. At least two times he slept, and in his dreams he saw color, women, friends. He wished he could sleep more often.
A loud creak startled him from a doze. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Orange and yellow flickered along the walls, at first a wonderful sight but soon painful in their brightness. Holding a hand before his eyes to block the pain, he felt a wretched sight as John Gandrem stepped in, soldiers at his side.
“Stay seated,” he said, “otherwise my guards will open you up in many places.”
“But a man should always rise at the arrival of a lord,” Oric said. He held back a cough. His voice felt scratchy, dry. He remained sitting despite his protest. Given how light his head felt, he thought he’d pass out if he stood too quickly.
John crossed his arms and looked down at him. In the yellow light John’s skin seemed like stone, old and unmalleable. His eyes looked even worse. For all the stories Oric had heard of Lord Gandrem’s kindness, he’d yet to hear a story describe those eyes. Mercy didn’t belong in them, not now, maybe not ever. Perhaps this was the lord of the dungeon, a different man from the lord of Felwood.
“Before we start, there’s a few things you should know,” Gandrem began. “First, I have talked extensively with the boy, Nathaniel. His story is consistent, and most damning. Second, the man Ingle thought he killed, the farmer Matthew, is not dead. Third, my men have already worked over Uri, and how he sang, Oric. I know what you did to that farmer’s wife. The idea that you could claim they assaulted a caravan and held Nathaniel hostage is laug
hable.”
“I never claimed it. That was Ingle’s stupid idea.”
The faintest hint of a smile stretched at Lord Gandrem’s lips, but then vanished.
“Perhaps. A shame I cut his throat before I could tell him the farmer lived. I plan on ensuring Matthew is well rewarded, as is his wife. But the question remains now, what do I do with you?”
“Well, between the rope and the ax, I think I’d prefer the ax.”
“In time, Oric. In time. See, my biggest problem is not with you, but with your master, Arthur Hadfield. Mark Tullen visited me before meeting with you and Nathaniel in Tyneham. I know he was escorting the boy back, and I’m not a damn fool. Everyone knows he was a potential suitor of Alyssa, and Arthur wanted him gone. Proving that, however, is another matter.”
His soldiers rushed in and grabbed Oric by either arm. Up went his hands, back and above his head. Chains rattled, and then he felt clamps tighten about his wrists. With him safely shackled, John sat on the small cot and pulled his heavy coat tighter about him.
“Now I don’t mean proving it to just Alyssa,” he continued. “She’s a bright gal, and there’s too much here for her to ignore. However, Arthur’s long held those mines at the edge of my lands, always refusing to pay taxes. I want those lands. It is my knights that have protected them. It is my lands his traders travel across to Veldaren. It is on my roads he ships his gold and sends for his supplies. By all rights they should be mine, and would have been if not for the Gemcrofts.”
“What could I possibly have to do with that?” Oric asked. His shoulders were starting to cramp, and he had a creeping feeling it was about to get a whole lot worse … especially if they left him like this for several hours, if not days.
“King Vaelor has rejected every claim of mine for taxes, no doubt because he fears the Trifect more than he fears me. That, and their bribes. But Arthur has no heir, and he’s never written a will in case he does have a son. If he dies as such, his lands will be joined with the closest lord’s.”
A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2) Page 26
